


Ghost

by Mishafer



Series: Saturating the Reibert tag with Actual Reibert Fics [18]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Angst, Depression, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-03-30 19:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19034383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishafer/pseuds/Mishafer
Summary: Four years after the lost battle in Shiganshina, Reiner finds a man who can only be the presumed dead Bertholdt Hoover. Except he goes by Maxim and has no memory of being Bertholdt.Or, Bertholdt appears in Liberio four years later with amnesia, but is still incredibly drawn to Reiner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this is not a canon retelling and the point of this isn't to rewrite canon. Second, the exact why and how of Bertholdt being alive I haven't decided to make clear because _I_ frankly can't think of how it could happen. This is just a little scenario I've had stuck in my head for ages and wanted to write out. Third, this will likely be 7-8 chapters, about half of which I already have written.

The backstreets Reiner takes for his shortcuts are always littered. His boot hits a crumpled ball of faded newspaper as he strolls along. He’s long stopped wondering why it’s never picked up here anymore. ‘Trash lives in trash’, according to Marleyans. At times he wishes to sink into this ghetto. Wallow in a dilapidated apartment above a tavern. Watch the paint peel from the walls while his ashtray overflows. Pounds of flesh slipping off one-by-one as he sinks into a reeking mattress to be the last thing to ever hold his body heat.

It’s a life many here have chosen, and Reiner envies it. Long forgotten are his fantasies of heroism and fathers and mothers reunited, a happy home and best friends and…

It’s useless to even dream of anymore.

He passes an alleyway that the cloudy day fails to fully brighten. Though he catches sight of a tiny mouse scampering about. He allows the memory of his fellow warrior cadets as children debating what to do with one. Galliard said to kick the damn thing, Marcel wanted to set a trap, Pieck wanted to make a maze for it, Annie suggested something Reiner would rather forget, and Bertholdt wanted to feed it some cheese. Reiner can’t remember what they did with it. But he knows he said he wanted to do what Marcel did.

The half-broken back door of the adjacent tavern swings open followed by a lanky silhouette of a man holding a bag. He moves to the dumpster and deposits its contents inside. The dim light by the bin reveals his apron first, then his mop of dark hair. Reiner’s legs move him forward just to see why the man is now kneeling. The mouse from before creeps out from beneath the dumpster and the man outstretches a hand to it.

Another step closer and Reiner studies his face. His nose is curved which is common there but its exact angle is one familiar. The puzzle comes together. Substantial height, curved nose, mop of dark hair, and upon closer inspection, eyes that droop at the sides. Reiner’s feet stitch to the ground. Everything around him twists and turns except the man before him. Reiner must fall over, because hitting his head is the only explanation for this.

A voice floats from the man next; throaty and low. Gentle to the little mouse that’s worth no more his time than the trash he just disposed. Reiner’s either pushed forward or the earth tilts and thrusts him forth because he’s sprinting at the alleyway. Chest bursting like it’s his first time running in training. The man alerts and the rat scampers off.

Reiner engulfs the man’s body to his like it’s all that will keep the earth from flipping upside down. He’s warm. He smells of cheap booze and detergent. His muscles are stiff against him but they’re alive.

Reiner speaks the name he only ever whispers, “Bertholdt.” He almost chokes on it. “Bertholdt!” he cries against the motionless but very alive body.

“Ah—!” goes the throaty voice. “I—excuse me, I think you’ve mistook me for someone else. My name is Maxim.” His body inches back and leaves Reiner’s front cool again. The man glances at Reiner’s armband. “Do I look like someone you know, mister warrior?”

_What the hell is he saying this for?_

“Bertholdt,” he utters to see if the name matches the face in front of him. It fits like a glove.

“I’m Maxim Gerig. I must share a great likeness to someone named Bertholdt?” He tries a laugh but it comes out more of a squeak.

“What did they do to you?”

His expression pains. “Would you like something to drink or eat? No charge, of course.”

Reiner's head aches and even the cloud-filtered sunlight feels too harsh.

Why now? Why would he start losing his mind again now? Nothing has happened. Nothing changed. The last battle cast aside in a pile of never-ending horror. Nothing new. Reiner looks at him again, waiting for the resemblance to waver. It doesn’t. He doesn’t turn into a different man with a different face and different eyes. It’s still just…

Bertholdt.

Reiner rubs his temple. “No, thank you.”

“Alright.” He gestures behind him. “Well, I have to get back inside. The offer still stands, sir. Anytime.”

He twitches at the sound of Bertholdt or ‘Maxim’ calling him sir. Then gives a nod as he disappears inside. A hand dries his dewy eyes as he stands there for a who knows how long.

He pinches his wrist and it stings instantly. He’s not dreaming, but he can’t be sure he’s fully conscious.

***

Reiner’s real dreams grant no reprieve. Bertholdt is cut from his nape as usual and Reiner's unable to move. Except this time Bertholdt wears Maxim’s worker-attire.

The clock reads 1:00 AM, and he hasn’t spoken a word of his encounter to anyone. Telling them of a Bertholdt look-alike only for it to turn out to be a hallucination would compromise his mental status. And Zeke still eyes him scrupulously.

_Waiting for that final snap any day now..._

He hears a shuffle down the hall that can only be Pieck. He bites his lip. Its cycle of being bitten and chapped to healing from his titan powers repeated a hundred times.

Reiner eventually sits up, forgoing his slippers and heading out into the hall after her. Pieck lies on the wicker bench in the kitchen. Arm hanging off the side and a sleepy frown on her mouth.

“Good morning, Reiner,” she greets.

“Morning?” he asks, pretending to look through the pantry for something to eat. Though he can’t think of the last time he ate out of anything but necessity.

“It’s after midnight.”

“Right.”

“Pock giving you a hard time again?”

“No, I’m just... it’s a nice  _morning_.” He scolds himself for forgetting how words work. But his mind’s still occupied with the face of a ghost. He shuts the pantry and turns to her as she now lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. “I was wondering, do we have access to the registry of Eldians in the city?”

That makes her eyes grow. “Why?”

“There’s a child who I was observing, might be a good fit for the warrior program. Trouble is, I only know the last name and not the parents.”

“If you ask Magath, I’m sure he’ll find it for you.”

Damnit.

“I was just hoping to find them myself. I got a bit of free time on my hands, you know.”

“Well, I’m sure he can find them for you then you can go yourself.”

He suppresses a sigh. “Thanks. Will do.”

Reiner’s not going to ask Magath. Wanting no one else here near the name Maxim Gerig. He decides he’ll have to ask around himself.

***

Swapping his red arm band for a yellow one may be paranoid. But look-alike or not, he can’t bring another whiff of Marley near this Maxim. And a warrior asking around about a kitchen help could get back to the officials.

Reiner replaces his military jacket with the long brown coat Bertholdt once wore. He’s not washed it once in four years. Never will either. Its smell is long gone, but when holding it to his nose his brain reminds him what it  _had_  smelled like.

It’s just past ten when he ducks out. He has no idea if Maxim will be there. Reiner just has to find out if he’s gone insane, it’s a look-alike, or it’s really him.

His throat aches at the last possibility.

The tavern is boisterous and dripping with seediness this time of night. Reiner first scans every face for Maxim. When he fails to find him, he settles on the bartender. Old, balding, and gruff. He reminds him briefly of his father.

He approaches and clears his throat, the story he made up beforehand on the tip of his tongue. “Excuse me, sir? I’d like to ask about one of your employees.”

The man raises a skeptical brow and side-steps over, wiping a dirty rag inside a mug that’s not getting any cleaner. “Yeah?”

“He goes by the name of Maxim Gerig.”

“Yeah, Maxim works here.”

His heart skips. “How long’s he been working here?”

“May I ask who’s askin’?”

“Ah, pardon my bad manners. I’m an old poker buddy of his. I owe him some money see, I’m trying to right some wrongs.”

He scoffs. “Maxim  _gambles_? He’s as strait-laced as they come.”

His heart skips again. “No one’s totally strait-laced.”

“Why you ask how long he’s been workin’ here?”

He scratches his neck. “This is a bit embarrassing, but I have a bit of drink problem. And by ‘a bit,’ I mean huge. I was smashed last I played with him. And he mentioned getting a new job just about then. I figure I owe him interest for how late I am. But I’ve been too wasted to have any idea how long it’s been. So I can’t gauge how much I owe.”

He slings the filthy rag over his shoulder. “Hired him on about three months ago.”

Three months. That explains why he’s never seen him in the last four years.

“Thank you, sir. Is he in now?”

“Nope.” He forms a sly grin. “But if you give me the money, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

“No offense, but I’d rather give it to him myself.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. He’ll be in mid-afternoon for sure.”

“Tomorrow afternoon.” He pats the bar. “I’ll be sure to be here.”

Reiner turns for the door and shoves his hands in his pockets. Outside, he leans against the doorframe and gazes at the twinkle of stars behind the hazy clouds. Maxim is real. Reiner can confirm he didn’t hallucinate him. And he’s apparently too strait-laced to gamble. Reiner recalls Bertholdt’s disinterest in the 104th boys' gambling trinkets and snacks.

Reiner pushes himself from the doorframe and starts back. He worries the gambling story will get back to Maxim and make him sound stalkery, but—

“Mister warrior?”

Reiner’s breath stutters, and he turns to who even in the dark is unmistakably Bertholdt.

Maxim jogs up to him as he dusts off his pants. “I was just passing through.”

The air in the lungs whooshes from his chest. Gazing up at a face so long blurred now pulled into sharp focus. In the whirl of emotions the first time, he’d neglected to notice the gap in their height is the same despite Reiner’s own growth. And the curve of Maxim’s— _Bertholdt’s_ —cheeks is flatter. He’s not the boy he last saw, he’s as much of a man as he is.

But it’s still him.

It takes every last piece of Reiner’s willpower not to collapse against his shoulders.

“Were you looking for me?” Maxim follows up. Reiner is quiet, throat bobbing. “It’s fine if you were. Did you want that freebie?”

He gives a nod. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“Great. Well, I’m not actually working tonight, but I gave my boss a heads-up that I promised one of our warriors a free drink. Come with me, sir.”

Reiner twitches again at that. ”You don’t have to call me that. It’s Braun. Reiner.”

“Alright. Come with me, Reiner.”

Reiner’s never been shot through the heart, but hearing Bertholdt speak his name again pierces the hammering organ still. He can't place if it’s a happy feeling or a horrible one.

Reiner forces composure and follows him inside. The barkeep is still up front, not paying much attention and Reiner’s able to think him a jackass trying to take Maxim’s faux payout. The man ignores the two though, or doesn’t notice. Reiner takes a seat at the bar and Maxim cleans a glass. He uses an actual clean rag.

Of course he does.

“What’ll you have?” he asks.

“Whatever’s good.”

This is ridiculous. He should be pushing him against the wall and shaking him, yelling  _'Bertholdt! Bertholdt! What happened!? How are you here!? Why don’t you remember me!? What did they do to you!?'_  Or throwing him over his shoulder and hauling him back to base. Telling the officials the holder of the colossus (if he holds the titan anymore?) is alive but amnesic.

Reiner should do this, but he’s selfish. He wants him all to himself. He wants to sit there and stare at him. Map every single feature he’s spent the last four years giving himself migraines trying not to forget. It dawns on him he did forget the precise shape of his chin, and he wants to cry apologies to him right then and there.

“Scotch, neat,” Maxim slides him his glass. “Plain, I know, but it’s our specialty.”

He takes a sip of the amber liquid his taste buds are too numb to appreciate.

Maxim cocks his head. “Your armband. Why did you change it?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “Just a change of pace.”

He rests his forearms on the bar—and notably not his elbows. Reiner recalls Bertholdt's adamance about table manners. “But honorary Marleyan status," he continues, "why’d you want to go back to this?”

“Sometimes it’s nice to blend in.”

“But it—” His hand travels to Reiner’s armband, but stops short to linger over the collar of his coat. His fingers stroke its edge and his brow furrows. Reiner shivers even though they’re not touching. “Where’d you get this?”

“An old friend.”

“Oh.” He pulls his hand back. “Sorry, I must’ve had one just like it before. Seems familiar.”

He throws back another shot of his drink. It burns a bit more this time. “It belonged to Bertholdt.”

Maxim’s face pales. “Ah. Well, excuse me, I have some work I need to do while I’m here.”

Maxim busies himself rearranging bottles that don’t appear to need rearrangement. Reiner’s grip tightens around his glass. Bertholdt’s buried somewhere in this facade of Maxim. Now’s when Reiner  _really_  needs to throw him over his shoulder and march him back to base.

Instead he finishes his drink and leaves a tip for Maxim. Then heads out back to base with lips sewn tight.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, shit!” Gabi cries when she misses the bullseye.

“Language, miss,” Reiner scolds.

She huffs and throws the rifle over her shoulder. “Oh, ‘shoot.’”

Zofia’s eye glimmers. “You made a pun.”

“Well, I don’t think they grade us on pun-making.”

“They should.”

She stomps her foot. “Hey! Don’t tell Marley what they should do.”

Reiner can’t help his attention wavering from the two when usually he fills as much of his day with them as he can. Instead, his mind buzzes with the possible outcome of Marley discovering Maxim.

He'd be forced from his simple life then poked and prodded. And if his memories didn’t return, they couldn’t guarantee his loyalty and would happily pass his titan on to another. That is if he’s still the colossal titan. But miracle coming back to life and being beamed back to Liberio or not, there’s nothing more impossible than separating a holder from their titan by anything but death.

Though Reiner sometimes wonders if deceased shifters ever truly leave their titans.

 _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ Gabi’s shouts of success pull him from his thoughts. He retreats from his fog in time to see a lanky figure kneeling beside her.

Every nerve in his body flares. “Hey!” He bolts over and pulls up the man by his arm.

Maxim stares back sheepishly. “Hi, Reiner. I—”

“You can’t be here,” Reiner mouths pointedly.

“Reiner, it’s okay,” Gabi says, tugging on his jacket. “He brought us a basket of fruit then said he knew how to shoot. And look!” She beams at the bullet holes peppering the bullseye.

Zofia takes a loud bite of a green apple. “And I’d been craving an apple from a stranger all day.”

Reiner takes Maxim by his arm and starts to lead him away. Gabi laments behind him and Zofia mutters something. Reiner calls back, “He’s lost, you two. Get back to your training.” Gabi grumbles again.

Reiner takes Maxim behind a storage shed. “You can’t be here.”

Maxim jerks his hand free from Reiner’s grip. “You said that already.” His eyes lid in annoyance, the exact way Bertholdt’s always had when he was annoyed with him. Reiner sees now just how often that was.

“You look exactly like him,” Reiner says. “They’ll think you _are_ him.”

“Bertholdt,” he says the name, tasting it. “And what if I were? Who is he?”

The answers are many. Colossal titan. Warrior. Best friend. Other adjectives Reiner dare not think. Especially when he looks as he does now. The sun illuminating his face and turning his eyes into a kaleidoscope of greens.

His throat bobs. “He was the holder of the colossus.”

His brow quirks. “I see. So the officials would do what, trap me and poke me?”

“I don’t know what they’d do. But you’re just a civilian. You don’t need that.”

“But since I’m not him, what would it matter if they did?”

_Yes, you are him!_

Maxim continues, “If they cut me I’ll bleed and won’t heal.”

He can only shrug. “It’s better this way.” He glances at the open training grounds gate. His offering of fruit must have won over the guard. “Did you really come here just to give the cadets fruit?”

He kicks a piece of gravel with his foot. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Why?”  
  
“I was worried about you.”

His chest sinks with guilt. “Look, how about I come visit you later? We’ll talk about everything and anything you want.”

Maxim gives a solemn nod. “Okay. Is my apartment okay? I’d rather meet there than the tavern.”

Reiner agrees and Maxim gives him his address.

***

Reiner exits under the cover of night, yet again donning a yellow armband and Bertholdt’s jacket. Maxim lives three buildings down from the bar in an apartment up a questionable flight of stairs. Reiner still fears he’ll open the door to an empty room or the face of different man. But after a knock appears Maxim as identical to Bertholdt as ever.

“Welcome, Reiner,” Maxim says, expression battling between nervous and content. “Come in.”

His apartment is all one room. A kitchenette, dining, and living space crammed into a square. Plus a cornered restroom shielded by a thick curtain. The bedroom area boasts a slim bed that Reiner can’t imagine being roomy enough. Pots of herbs line the kitchen windowsill. A shelf houses books spaced out to no doubt to make the shelf seem fuller. Every surface is well-dusted in sharp contrast to the rest of the grimy building. It’s obvious Maxim does his best in making the place look nice. Bertholdt always decorated his spaces as cordially as he could. Creating a home away far from home.

The entire place radiates with Bertholdt’s energy.

“Would you like a helping of my supper?” Maxim asks as he takes Reiner’s—no, _his—_ jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. “I would’ve waited for you but I was starving.” He frowns. “Sorry.”

He’s not at all hungry, but there’s no way he’s turning down his cooking. “No worries. And I’d love some. Thanks.”

Maxim hurries and fixes him a plate. Lentils and rice tinted a worrying bright orange and twirled with some kind of green. He sets down the plate and a glass of water for Reiner. They sit across from one another at the polished round table.

Reiner takes a bite then rubs his throat. “You like spice, huh?”

“Is it spicy?”

He smiles to himself at a memory.

_”Chili powder isn’t spicy to me,” a tiny Bertholdt said._

_Reiner spit out his deviled egg. “Ugh! It’s awful. My mouth is on fire!”_

_Bertholdt put his hand over his mouth and stifled a giggle._

_Reiner pouted. “Don’t laugh at me…”_

“I must just not be used to it.”

He slouches. “I can make you something else if you want.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy.” In all honesty, the prickly sensation on his tongue is refreshing.

“Ah, good to hear.”

He considers his next words carefully. “So where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

His eyes flit to the side. “Playing darts here and there.”

“Really? Darts? That’s a whole different animal than shooting a gun.”

“Actually, I have a few firearms I got off the black market and stash under my bed. There’s a deep cellar me and some other people go down to sometimes and practice.” His hands fly over his mouth. ”Why did I just say that?”

He waves him off. “Like I’m gonna turn you in for owning a few guns. Need more than a few to start a rebellion.” Maxim wipes his damp temple with his sleeve. Reiner takes a swing of water to placate the spicy dish. “So, buying an illegal weapon off the black market. Bit of a bad boy, huh?”

Maxim’s eyes go wide and a blush rushes to his cheeks. “No. No, not at all.”

Reiner’s holding back a laugh at the most adorable blush. He wants to see it everyday.

“I just like to shoot is all,” Maxim adds.

“How’d you learn? Your father teach you?”

_Bertholdt’s did._

“I don’t really remember.”

“You don’t just pick up a skill like that and not remember.”

He shrugs. “Well, seems like I did.”

Reiner decides to pull back as not to overwhelm, and changes the subject to his mundane day. Maxim holds onto every word, as if awaiting some bombshell. But Reiner assures him he’s ‘fine.’ It’s been years since someone has been truly interested to hear about his day. Reiner struggles finding words at times having forgotten how to talk about himself.

After Maxim takes away his empty plate, they retire to the sofa.

Reiner decides it’s time to push again. “So where are you from? Is it here? If so I’m surprised that I only just now saw the guy who looks exactly like Bertholdt.”

His gaze reflects inward. “No, my family was relocated here recently.”

“From where? What does your family do?”

“They’re from another town. And they mill.” His answer comes out more of a question.

“You have siblings?”

His brow creases. “I don’t think so.” He glances at the coat rack. “So, could Bertholdt shoot?”

That’s it. The thread of doubt. Maxim’s already arrived at the place Reiner worried he’d be unresponsive to. He can’t scare the man, tell him he’s Bertholdt Hoover with memory loss. But he can keep pulling the thread until he unravels it himself.

“He could,” Reiner replies. “He didn’t think chili powder was spicy either. And thought it was funny that I did.”

He pulls a knee to his chest. “What else?”

Reiner indexes his encyclopedia of Bertholdt for somewhere to start.

“Well, he liked potstickers. Anything stuffed, really. Especially with crab, cabbage, and carrots.” Maxim doesn’t disagree, so he continues, “He could fall asleep anywhere. Once he dozed off during a training exercise suspended in the air by the islanders' training gear. It wasn’t his fault, I’d kept him up all night talking. I covered for him and said he was just ‘thinking really hard.’” He chuckles at the memory, and Maxim’s face pales. “He liked to sit with his knees against his chest like you’re doing now. At first I thought he did it when he was upset, but then I realized he just does it because he finds it comfortable. I can’t get comfortable like that though, I’ve tried but Bertholdt was always more limber than me.”

He carries on describing Bertholdt. A genuine smile finding his lips as he ends up just listing the things he loved most about him. He thinks he goes on too long, but Maxim just pulls his other leg to his chest and listens.

Finally Reiner asks, “What are you thinking?”

He chews his lip. “I’m thinking… did Bertholdt worry about you a lot?”

His genuine smiles fades to one of sadness. “You could say that.”

“And I guess if he had a few guns under his bed you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Never.”

Reiner feels he's grabbing threads that snap once he gets a handful. He wonders if this is what Bertholdt felt like when he slipped into his delusions on Paradis. Looking into the eyes of someone who’s both a stranger and as much of a part of you as your right arm.

Reiner’s fingers flex, ready to grab onto a thread and pull until the tangled web unfurles. So he fishes a hand into his pocket and takes out his initialed pocket knife.

“Hey—!” Maxim alerts before Reiner extends it out to him.

”I know what you’re thinking,” Reiner says.

He gulps. “And what’s that?”

“What you said earlier. If you’re not him, cutting yourself won’t do anything but make you bleed.” Maxim’s hand hovers over the knife. “Just a nick. Don’t worry, a cat scratch won’t be enough to make you turn. If you are him.”

“I’m not.” The declaration is feeble and doesn’t find his eyes.

“Then prove it and rest assured you’re just a lookalike who has some things in common.”

He accepts the blade and struggles to hold it with sweaty palms. A low sound comes from his throat. “Reiner…”

The sound of his name still rings like music.

“Just a nick.”

He nods, and cuts once, but doesn’t break the skin. So he pushes down more firmly and dot of blood beads up. “Does it heal on its own?”

“You just imagine it healing and it does.”

The next few seconds take an eternity. The weight of Reiner’s whole world teetering on the edge of a steep cliff.

The red dot dries, then evaporates in a puff of stream. And just like that Reiner’s plummeting off the cliff. He claws at Bertholdt’s—yes _Bertholdt’s—_ shirt as he collapses against him. His chest burns as sobs rip out of him. Some deeply unsettling moan reverberates in his ears. A minute passes before he realize it comes from him. The geyser of feeling erupts against who’s been a ghost in his nightmares for four years. But this ghost lives and breathes and bleeds then heals.

Reiner wilts to the floor and Bertholdt cradles him. Reiner’s saying he’s sorry again and again until the words are inaudible. Bertholdt shushes him but there’s a question in it. He knows he still doesn’t remember. But he's dreamed of his strong arms holding him for nearly a decade. Finally, Bertholdt leans back. Reiner’s too weak to hold himself up and falls into his lap.

“Reiner.”

Music.

Bertholdt gently grasps his shoulders and lifts him to eye-level. His green eyes glisten with tears. The kind of recognition he’d been hoping for is missing. But he’s not a looking back at a stranger. There’s something there that remembers him even if his mind can’t find the memories of it.

Bertholdt takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dries Reiner’s face. The mess of tears and mucous on his own shirt left damp.

“I—I’m sorry,” Bertholdt stammers. “I still can’t remember anything.”

A shaky hand cups his face. His warm, alive face. “It’s okay. Just glad you're here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Reiner's body is depleted. His eyes sting from dried tears and his limbs feel too much like concrete to move. Bertholdt sits adjacent on his bed. Gaze vacant and cheek resting on knees he has pulled snugly to his chest. For the first time, Reiner considers what this is doing to _Maxim_. The simple bar worker who discovered he’s a man whose name he learned mere days ago. That he sits on the power of Marley’s greatest weapon. And that his years are fixed. Unless it’s different now? With nothing making sense anymore Reiner can’t say for sure.

“Take me back with you,” Bertholdt’s voice slices through the thick air.

Reiner’s head ticks up. “Huh?”

“I’m one of Marley's warriors. And they might know what happened to me, and how to get my memories back.”

An ounce of strength bleeds into his veins. “No.”

He lifts his head. “Why not?” And he seems genuinely confused. As if nothing bad could come from throwing himself over an unpinned grenade.

“You don’t want that life.”

_And I don’t want you anywhere but with me._

“But it’s my job,” he argues. “We can win the war for good, and put a stop to it all.” His voice is monotone, no trace of national pride or glee of imminent victory. His face is slack. The way it's  always been when discussing their mission.

Reiner detaches Bertholdt’s fingers from his knees and weaves them through his own. “Listen to me, you might not get your memories back. They might think you’re a risk because it can’t be proven whose side you’re on. They might even think you’ve been compromised and sent here to infiltrate us.” His hands clamp down on Bertholdt’s until he feels muscles tighten. “They’ll feed you to someone else.”

His gaze drifts to the side. “Won’t I die soon either way?”

Reiner doesn’t want him to be asking these questions. He just wants to keep his hands in his and never let go. Never leave this room. Stay here with Bertholdt until the whole world crumbles and burns around them.

“Don’t talk like that,” Reiner utters.

He unscrews his hands from Reiner’s. “I’m sorry, I can’t sit on this.” He rises and starts for the door.

“Wait!” Reiner stumbles after him, falling to the floor and throwing his arms around his waist. His cheek presses flush against the side of his hip. “Bertholdt, please, please, _please_. I’m begging you please just stay put for one day. Just one.” His face burns with humiliation, but he's certain he'll die if he watches him leave again. “Don’t go.”

Bertholdt stops while Reiner continues muffling pleading words against his hip. A soft hand finds his. “Okay,” Bertholdt agrees.

His lungs release a burst of air. “Thank you. Thank you, _god_ , thank you.” He’s astonished Bertholdt is staying. Knowing he deserves better than this pathetic mess of a human who clings to his body like a poor child begging a noble for a handout.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt begins carefully, “will you tell me about our lives?”

***

They return to sitting across one another on Bertholdt's narrow bed. Close enough that their knees graze every so often as Reiner recounts their lives. From childhood, to the last battle of Shiganshina, he lists even the worst of it. Marcel, his dissociation, his selfishness, and leaving both him and Annie behind. Reiner’s too exhausted to feel the weight behind the events he recalls. Bertholdt never moves during the stories. Reiner feels Bertholdt is washed out by an information overload too.

“I wish I remembered,” Bertholdt says at the end.

Reiner rubs a crease in the bed cover. “You don’t want to remember. Believe me.”

“What was the worst of it? For me, and for you.”

He almost laughs. The disaster of his life is comical at this point. But Reiner’s never asked himself this question. Never tried to compare. Never imagined it fair to weigh his own burdens against the ones he cast upon thousands.

But the answer comes without contemplation. “Moving forward. That’s the worst of it. Not during, but after.”

“For both of us?”

“For you it was probably accepting it. Which I think you did, in the end. You got to a place I never did.” 

His brow lifts. “Well, if I ‘died’ then accepting it must’ve been the wrong move.” 

The earlier self-deprecating laugh bubbles from his throat. “It wasn’t. The wrong move was coming to save me.” Reiner stares at his hands. His nails are chewed jagged and tinted with unwashed dirt. He fights the urge to bite them to the quick. "You aborted the initial plan because you saw I was injured."

"When you lost your head."

"I remember hearing your voice. And seeing you, I still don't know how that's possible since I had no eyes."

Bertholdt cracks up. "So that's the life for us shifters? Just casually mentioning when we lost our heads and had no eyes?"  

There was a time Reiner would've thought it funny too. But he wants Bertholdt to think of it with nothing but horror. "It's not as funny as it sounds."

His face drops. "Sorry."

"It's alright. It'd sound funny if I were you too. But anyway, Bertholdt, I—” He pauses. “Sorry, I should’ve asked if I can call you that.”

He shrugs. “If it’s easier for you, then it’s okay.”

He half-smiles. He loves saying his name. “Bertholdt, regardless if it was right or not, I never got a chance to thank you for that. You threw away a sure thing just to make sure I was okay. You told me to turn over so I’d be protected. If you hadn't done that... then I'd be dead and you'd have probably won it for us. You'd be here as yourself."

"Or you'd be a bartender and I'd be vice commander Hoover. Didn't you just say it's better that’s not my life?"

He rubs his tired eyes. "Guess I can't keep my story straight."

"You're welcome."

He blinks. "For what?"

His features warm. "For saving you."

The words should comfort Reiner, but they engulf his heart with guilt.

Bertholdt leans forward. “I still wish I could remember _you_." His finger traces a circle on the bed. "Do you feel like elaborating on us some? You said when we met but not how we became friends.”

Memories roll in that for years cut too deep to speak of. But recounting them to Bertholdt makes them flow easily. Reiner tells of Bertholdt's protective nature over him. How he stood back and allowed Reiner to shine. How they slept beside one another every night for five years, and how he’d kick him in his sleep. How when they were alone and no one could hear, Bertholdt would come out of his shell and reveal a dry sense of humor. A piece of himself shared with no one but Reiner.

Bertholdt's face glows throughout each tale. “You kind of talk a lot…”

A bright smile spreads across his face. “You asked that I did.”

“My mistake.”

Reiner folds his hands in his lap. “Hey, there’s something else. I don't think you just spontaneously reappeared. You look older. Like it’s been four years.”

And only four years. Reiner's keenly aware of the decades added to his own face in the same time. Bertholdt wears none of it.

Bertholdt nods along. “So you’re not babysitting a teenager.”

“Guess not.”

In a way, he’s jealous. Bertholdt missed out. Skipped a grueling war, failed mission, and lost comrade when Bertholdt seems to only have been aware for a few months. Reiner reflects on what Bertholdt was headed out the door to do. The layers of age it would add to his face. He never wants to see him marred by it.

It all hurts his head. And he’s exhausted to the bone. By titans, shifters, Marley, Paradis, and everything in between.

What he wants to do more than anything is sleep beside Bertholdt again.

Reiner glances at the clock, it’s late. They’ve been talking for hours. He considers being timid, but he knows Bertholdt’s heart and his soul. Remembering a summer day in training camp six years ago or not, he can’t see him declining even if he should.

But before he can ask, Bertholdt says, “Would you stay here with me tonight?”

He tilts his head. “Of course I will.”

Bertholdt bites his lip and glances at the sofa. “The couch is too short for you, so…”

“Bed’s fine. We slept beside each other for years, you know.”

***

For the past four years upon waking, the space beside Reiner was always ice-cold even on the hottest days. A loud exclamation of something and someone missing. He’d often wake to feel a presence beside him only to come to and find frigid air where a familiar face once was.

Now when Reiner awakes he feels he’s never gone a night sleeping without Bertholdt. Morning light filters in through the blinds and casts lines of sun across their sleep-lax bodies and now wrinkled clothing.

Bertholdt lies with an arm and leg wrapped around Reiner. Nothing as creative as the past, but he supposes he doesn’t have the same demons to haunt his sleep and send him tossing and turning.

He’s a vision. Reiner’s eyes droop with sleep but he can’t bear to stop staring at him. Forever unable to satiate his need to soak up as much of him as he can. Even though he’s probably marveled at him for thirty minutes straight. Finally, Bertholdt stirs and moistens his lips.

Reiner threads his fingers through his bedhead while his other hand idles on his shoulder. Bertholdt’s eyes open. There’s debris gathered on his eyelashes. Unsightly. Unpretty. A sign of life Reiner finds breathtaking coming from a ghost.

Bertholdt’s pupils dilate at the sight of him. “Hi, Reiner.”

_Hi, angel._

“How’d you sleep?” Reiner asks.

Bertholdt hums. “Good. You? You like sleeping next to me again?”

There aren’t words to express how much.

Reiner cards his fingers through one last lock of hair. “Yeah. It was nice.”

“Good.”

They lie quietly for a few more blissful minutes. Then Bertholdt gathers his bearings and sits up. “I’m parched. I’m gonna get us some water.” He stands, stretches, and rubs his eyes. Then drags his feet across the floor to the sink. Reiner watches him like a play he’d seen a thousand times before, because Bertholdt always did this when he woke. Stretched, rubbed his eyes, then searched for water.  

Bertholdt hands him his glass and Reiner rises. The glass is pristine unlike the liquid it holds. Regardless, he gulps down the entire thing.

They set their glasses aside and Reiner moves to sit beside him on the bed’s edge.

“Hey,” Bertholdt begins, pitch a steep drop from earlier, “I have to ask something.”

Reiner admires the way a tuft of hair falls across the top of his ear. “Anything.”

He grips the bed and his knuckles pale. “Before… were we ever lovers?”

Reiner’s jolted from his dreamy daze.  

“It’s okay if we were, and if you didn’t want to tell me, I get why. But I’m not bothered. I just want to know.”

A tidal wave of shame crashes over him from his indulgence. Cuddling, watching him sleep, and caressing his hair? Of course he’d get the idea they were something more. His legs beg him to run. Pleading to take him miles away from the minefield Bertholdt’s laid out in front of him.

Bertholdt slides closer. “Reiner?”

Reiner’s stomach rolls. ‘Maxim’ is bolder than Bertholdt ever was. He supposes it makes sense, he’s been on his own for a while. Had to fend for himself for the first time in his life. But Reiner hates it. Hates that he brings up the things they both kept buried.

Reiner guesses Bertholdt doesn’t remember the circumstances. That every decision they make is suspended above a razor-toothed monster.

Bertholdt continues, “I also ask because I can’t help feeling like—”

“No,” he answers as pointed as he can, but it comes out hoarse. “No, we weren’t.”

“Did we want to be?”

_Run. Run. Run._

Reiner intends to say no, but his tongue glues to the roof of his mouth.

Bertholdt’s hand finds his shoulder. “It’s just, when we woke up…” A blush dusts his cheeks. ”Nothing I’ve felt so far has been wrong.”

Reiner doesn’t want to know this. He can’t know Bertholdt felt the same. Know they could’ve been together that way. That he let him die without kissing him. He needs to believe Bertholdt would’ve said no and nothing was wasted. That Reiner was just a queer with a misplaced crush. That Bertholdt only ever saw him as a friend and that’s all he sees now.

Reiner dares to look him in the eye. His gaze shines of affection. If he’s ever looked at him like this before, Reiner missed it.

He missed all of it.

“I was surprised when you told me about our lives and you didn’t say we were lovers. We really weren’t?”

Reiner gives a tiny shake of his head. “I told you—” He clears his throat. “You liked our comrade, Annie.”

“I know, but—”

“ _Would you just drop it_?”

Hurt flashes across his face. “I’m sorry.”

Reiner stands and turns his back, gripping the bridge of his nose. He wants to shrink down to nothingness. He dreamt of Bertholdt professing his love to him for half his life and yet just yelled at him for doing so. His absence tore his heart in two and he never imagined he’d treat him with anything but a gentle hand if they reunited.

The bed creaks behind him from a weight lifting. Bertholdt’s own gentle hand finds his shoulder again. Reiner’s torn in half by the urge to flee for his life and plummet off yet another cliff.

Bertholdt places the pad of his thumb on Reiner’s bottom’s lip. ”I don’t think you want to drop it.” He replaces his thumb with his mouth, tentative.  

Then Reiner hurls himself off another cliff.

Reiner squeezes Bertholdt against him and forces the wind from them both. He kisses him like he’s the last source of oxygen in the world. Sucks on his lips and his tongue. Like a ravenous titan devouring its next meal. He wants Bertholdt closer than even this. Wants to feel him inside his pores. Beating through his bloodstream.

They only separate because Bertholdt loses his balance and staggers backward. Reiner’s dizzy. The room spins around them as he shudders out a breath.   

Bertholdt’s shaky hand moves from Reiner’s waist to hover over his mouth. “Oh my...”

Their mixture of saliva cools on Reiner’s chin. He immediately wipes it away and backs up a step. “I…” He starts shaking his head. “I’ll—I’ll come see you later.” He’s heading for the door. “Do you work today?”

“Reiner—”

He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Do you work today?” His voice climbs to a scratchy level.

There’s a loud pause. “Five to eleven.”

“I’ll come round here after eleven then.” Bertholdt says something else but Reiner shuts the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiner: BERT NO DON'T LEAVE  
> Also Reiner: WELP we kissed gotta bolt see ya later


	4. Chapter 4

Reiner regrets this already, but when sense has ceased, he has to act as such. He could lie and say he was requested the info by a higher-up. Making him a timid little boy afraid of asking big questions for fear of a scolding. He imagines what Bertholdt would think. But as much as Reiner feels he should be ashamed of him, he knows he’d never find him half as pathetic as Reiner finds himself. He thinks it must be his greatest flaw.

Reiner raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Galliard?”

Galliard sits at a desk, hands sorting through some kind of wooden box. “What?” comes an already exasperated tone.

He braces himself to poke his comrade's biggest sore spot. “About your memories,” Reiner begins, and Porco’s back visibly tenses. “When did you first get them?” 

He hooks an arm around the back of his chair and turns, his eyes aflame. “Why the fuck are you asking me this? Ask someone else. Ask literally anyone else.”

He stands his ground. “I’m asking you.”

“You’ve barely even been around lately, this an existential crisis?” He waves him off and turns back. “Go have it somewhere else.”

He forces himself to press on and plunge the knife in deeper. “You’re the only one I know with real inherited memories.” He gulps. “And I’ve been having flashes lately.”.

He deflates just a tad. “Of what?”

“The last holder of my titan," he lies. "I keep passing the cemetery where his honorary gravestone is and getting déjà vu.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “So it makes you _feel_ something. Big deal.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

He's silent a moment. “My parents.”

“Your parents made you remember—” He doesn’t want to say to his name. Not to Galliard. Or even at all. The name Marcel doesn’t deserve to leave his lips. “—remember _him_.”

“Yeah. You done?” 

He wants to go further, but the knife’s already been plunged in too far for Reiner’s—and Galliard's—comfort. “Yeah. I’m done. Thanks.” 

Reiner circles around and lays his back against the hallway wall. A relieved exhale passes his lips and hope for returning Bertholdt's memories spreads through his chest. 

***

Reiner's nervously chews his tongue and knocks at Bertholdt’s door. An outing is risky, however he owes this trip to him.

Plus, it will no doubt distract him from the kiss. 

Bertholdt answers, in the process of pulling on royal blue shirt. Offering a glimpse of taut abs that Reiner demeans himself for eyeing. Mirroring countless times he shunned attraction to his friend. An attraction that simply _won’t go away_ even after four years without seeing him. And attraction is supposed to go away. After all. he'd heard countless couples speak of losing their spark as time went on.

Reiner adds it to his never-ending pile of bad luck. 

“Reiner, hi,” Bertholdt greets with a skeptical smile.

He decides not to dally. They can’t spend time in the apartment where _that_ happened. “I need to take you to see something.”

Bertholdt glances past him down the hall. “Oh?”

“Your father’s grave.”

His recount of Bertholdt's father received only a small nod from Bertholdt. From what Reiner understands, being merely told of someone triggers no emotion. Being face-to-face with his grave could surface a memory.

“Okay,” Bertholdt agrees. “Let me grab my coat.” Reiner waits while Bertholdt fishes for his jacket before stepping out. The same forced smile strains his face. “Right, let’s go.”

Reiner knows what he’s really thinking about. It’s all Reiner can think about too. The fleshy meeting of lips, bumping of tongues, and the personable breath against his cheek. But he can’t stand to discuss it. Discover the depths that lie beneath. It’s too far and Reiner quakes at the thought of exploring it.

And salivates.

The night air is cooler than the night before. Yet the thickness of their tension and awkward small talk makes it feel unbearably muggy. The graveyard they travel to is the only place any Eldian may be buried among Marleyans. Albeit in a section in the back corner partitioned away from Marleyans.

There’s a watchman at the entrance. Meaning this time Reiner did wear his red armband. The stocky guard scrutinizes Bertholdt as the two pass through the gate.

“Head down,” Reiner whispers to him. No, he doesn’t particularly think anyone here is going to recognize a grown Bertholdt Hoover and toss a net over him. But the less he’s seen around the nicer part of town the better.

Reiner leads him past the pristine rows of flower-littered Marleyan gravestones and to the section for honorary Marleyans. Generations of shifters’ families rest here alongside empty graves of shifters fed to their inheritors.

All this is an even greater insult, Reiner thinks. Only after throwing his life away is he granted the status of slightly less demonic than his ilk. He’d once seen the armored titan a gift of great respect, now he knows it’s a way to further punish him for existing.

“There.” Reiner gestures to a small square gravestone etched with the name ‘Hektor Hoover.’

Bertholdt kneels and his fingertips trace the name. There’s no reaction, but Reiner hadn’t expected one from the stone alone. So he kneels beside him and searches his long coat’s pocket. 

“Here.” He hands Bertholdt a photograph of Hektor. A man lanky like his son and with a nose just as long. Bertholdt studies it a moment and Reiner waits with bated breath “Well?”

His bottom lip puckers. “This makes me feel sad. But I don’t remember him.”

He bows his head and curls inward. “Family is usually a trigger for memories. I thought this might do it. But since it’s just a photo and gravestone I guess it’s not good enough.”

Bertholdt blinks a tear down his cheek then wipes it away. “I hate this. I want to remember him. I feel like I know him I just can’t...” He sniffles.

“I know. But he’d be so happy you finally came home to him.” 

A breeze blows a tuft of Bertholdt's dark bangs askew. Reiner fights the urge to lovingly brush it back into place.  

His chin trembles and he offers a nod of appreciation. “Thank you for taking me here.” He towers to his feet, hands clinging delicately to the photograph. “May I keep this?”

Reiner stands and touches Bertholdt's wrist. “Of course.” He pulls his hand back immediately. Bertholdt might enjoy the comforting touch but Reiner can't have him getting any more ideas.

They begin back to Bertholdt’s apartment, albeit slowly. Taking a few backstreets that are known for seediness, but nothing Reiner could be honestly threatened by.

After minutes of wordless walking, Bertholdt's asks in small voice, “Should I really be crying for him?” He creases the photo in his hand.

Reiner blinks. “What do you mean?”

“It’s for him I was doing it, the warrior program. I just… isn’t it supposed to be the parent who lays their life on the line for their child?”

Reiner’s head spins at his words. “Bertholdt…”

He puts the photo in his pocket. “You told me I was lucky I didn’t remember any of it. Why should I cry for someone who put me into that life so horrible I'm better off forgetting it?”

“He loved you.”

He nods along, staring at the stone street his shoes traverse. “I wouldn’t love my son like that.”

“It’s not that cut and dry.”

“I think it is.”

Again, Reiner’s shelshocked by ‘Maxim’s’ honesty. It stirs an equal amount of excitement and dread in his gut. He’d always wished Bertholdt would solidify a spine, but displaying it with such words is dangerous. A danger Reiner can’t bear to see Bertholdt step into.

“So,” Reiner starts, “not as eager to turn yourself in anymore?”

He huffs a sigh. “If I tried to, wouldn’t you stop me?”

They both stop. The two stand alone on a lamplit street corner. A gaggle of giggling girls echoes from the next block.

“I can only hold on so much,” he replies.

But Reiner can’t kid himself. He’ll throw himself around Bertholdt again if he ever dares leave again.

Bertholdt casts his gaze to the clear sky. “It’s a nice night.”

Reiner’s heart breaks a little. Breaks at the gleam of peace on his features. One he hasn’t worn since they were children. So much he wants to Bertholdt’s memories to return. But to do so would erase that innocent gleam forever.

No matter what Bertholdt does, they both lose something.

His gaze travels back to Reiner. “What you’re doing, not turning me in. It borders on treason. Doesn't it?”

It’s true. He’s keeping the colossal titan from Marley. The penalty for that would be severe. As severe as feeding him to another sooner rather than later.

“Yes,” Reiner answers.

“That’s not being a loyal warrior. Like you told me you wanted to be.”

“ _Wanted_. My only goal the past four years is run out the clock.”

Four years spent plodding through a thick fog yearning for the day it all goes black. Until the man in front of him shone through the dark. It’s unclear if Bertholdt’s time left is still the same as his, with what happened rules seem to have been thrown to the wind.

But Reiner’s years left are still fixed at two. Two more years of not kissing Bertholdt. Not holding him. Not telling him he’s in love with him. Keeping at arm’s length the man whose loss hurt as much as his painful desire for him hurts now.

The walk back to Bertholdt’s apartment is shrouded in the fog of Reiner’s mind. Each step taking him toward a light rather than an abyss. A light he’s terrified will blind him after ages of searching for midnight.  

Once home, Bertholdt quietly removes his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. His eyes tell he’s a thousand miles away. Perhaps fumbling through his own fog.

"Reiner?" he asks.

Reiner watches him lean against his bookshelf. "Yes?"

"Why did you think seeing my dad's grave would trigger my memories, when you hadn't?"

"Because he's your father."

"Seems like I was closer to you than him." Bertholdt slowly approaches him. "You meant the most to me, Reiner. I can tell." He gets close. Too close.

Reiner should run, but the draw is too strong. He's too helpless.

They're both helpless. 

A flash of white later and they’re kissing. Pawing at each other with Bertholdt pushed against the wall, knocking crooked a scenic painting. Reiner pulls Bertholdt against him so tight he thinks like their hips will bruise.

Bertholdt eagerly leads him to his bed. He hovers over him, coat and both their shirts cast to the floor. Reiner’s trembling fingers graze Bertholdt’s chest. But when he detects Bertholdt's growing stiffness, Reiner freezes. Ancient fears tense every muscle in his body to either fight or fly. 

“Is this too much?” Bertholdt asks, hand sliding to delicately cup his cheek as if he were porcelain. "We don't have to do anything like this..."

This was never supposed to happen. Reiner was never supposed to get everything he always wanted. A thousand doesn’ts, shouldn’ts, and cant’s dance on his tongue. Reiner's not even sure what he's desires right now with Bertholdt is sex. Carnality has long been lost to him. He just wants to feel Bertholdt's warm skin on his until they fuse together.  

And for god's sake, he has two years left to live. 

“No," Reiner replies. "I just want to take our time.”


	5. Chapter 5

Bertholdt lies on his back without a stitch of clothing. A thin sheen of sweat sticks his bangs to his forehead. His wet lips are parted, his skin flushed a dusty rose. His lean muscles are slack from use. He’s beautiful in ways Reiner didn’t know a person could be.

It’s been hours. A slow progression from gentle kissing, to petting, then to what Reiner thinks he may have blacked out from.  

“God, you’re sexy,” Bertholdt purrs.

Reiner blushes harder from those words than he had from anything they just did together. He wants to ask why he thinks so, he doesn't think himself much to look at anymore. However this Bertholdt doesn’t remember Reiner’s form when they parted. Before the wear on his face and slimming of his body. Though he knows Bertholdt never cared since he chose the most meager boy in the warrior program for his friend. 

Bertholdt kisses at his neck. Peppering goosebumps down his spine beneath his own sticky skin. Reiner massages the small of Bertholdt’s back seeking to raise goosebumps of his own. 

Bertholdt lays his head on his pillow and traces the stubble of Reiner’s cheek. “How long have you had this?”

“A couple years.”

“That makes sense, there’s no way I could’ve kept my hands off you before if you'd always had this.” He connects his lips to his. “It tickles.”

Reiner kisses him again. Still no where near getting enough of him. No where enough to satiate desires he'd long forgotten; to be loved romantically and touched sensually. Reiner had sought discreet male companionship in the early days back in Liberio. Trying to escape his pain by burying himself in strange flesh, but nothing ever scratched his itch. 

He knows now it’s because there’s only one person in the world capable of doing it. 

Reiner’s without the stamina to be aroused again, but he needs to hear more of Bertholdt’s beautiful enraptured sounds. He nips down his neck to his chest and salty skin greets his tastebuds. His chest hosts a smattering of dark hair illustrating the man he’s become. Bertholdt keens when his mouth fastens over a nipple and sucks gently. 

“That tickle too?” Reiner asks.

He pets Reiner’s hair. “It’s a good tickle.”

Reiner could do this forever. Lie in bed with him making love for the next two years. He’d not miss one second outside these walls. 

***

“I have to go, I’m sorry.” 

Midday has come. The hours Reiner spent in Bertholdt’s arms flew by. But Bertholdt is adamant he get to work. It’s smart. He’s not as eager to shirk his responsibilities like Reiner is. Yet he can read the reluctance in his green eyes.  

They’re both redressed now, Reiner pressing kisses all over his cheeks, temple, and jaw as he attempts to fix himself up. Bertholdt lets out the cutest laughter and useless ‘no’s’ and ‘I really have to go…’ 

“Let's just barricade the door and windows and stay here forever,” Reiner says against his neck, hands planted on his hips. 

“I wish.” He gifts a peck to his lips. “I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His face drops. “Besides, I’m sure you have things to attend to.” 

Does he? Reiner can’t recall what day of the week it is. The time since he first spotted Bertholdt in that alleyway has been a blur. And the thought of going back to the world's hellish reality after this slice of paradise ties knots in his gut. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Reiner says though. And Bertholdt _is_ right. Galliard already noticed his scarcity and it’s only a matter of time before Zeke and Pieck catch on. If they haven’t already.

***

“You smell like sex.”

Reiner’s teeth gnash at Pieck’s words. Avoiding her quizative eye as they await to meet with Galliard and their war chief. His knuckles whiten around his mug handle, but he doesn’t respond. 

“I won’t tell," she continues. "But you should bathe more to get the whiff of whoever that is off you.” Reiner offers a small nod and takes a sip of his coffee. Still much too hot to drink and it scalds his throat. "There was no child you wanted to recruit, was there?” 

Why does she have to be this observant now? Reiner just gnaws an ulcer on his tongue. He completely forgot his lie of scouting a new recruit. Bertholdt ruins his ability to recall anything but the curve of his jaw.  

“Well,” she starts with a sigh, laying her head against the chair, “whoever he is, just don’t let him get in the way of your job.”

 _He_.

Of course she knows. Pieck knows everything by intuition. He briefly imagines the havoc she and Ymir could’ve wrought together.

Ymir. Yet another holder of his many broken promises. 

Even Bertholdt still holds one. Reiner never got him home. Something or someone else did. 

Reiner just gives another affirmative nod. 

***

He’s early. Fidgeting as he waits on the bench a building away from the tavern. His pocket watch reads fifteen minutes until Bertholdt gets off work. The seconds drag by. Reiner needs to see him now. Needs to graze his lips and feel his heart beat against his palm.

It’s still all so very dreamlike. 

“Excuse me!” an urgent voice shatters the air. A frantic young boy hustles breathlessly to the bench. “Mister, I was just mugged,” he exclaims. “May you please help me? I can’t be without my pay, my mother is—”

Reiner stands and places a strong hand on his shoulder. “Say no more. That way?” He gestures to an alleyway.

It’s rare Reiner gets the chance to perform acts of true service to those in need. He can’t fight back a twinge of pride as he boy leads him down the alley. Behind the building a long figure stands flipping through what Reiner assumes is the wallet. The thief alerts and starts to flee, but Reiner leaps forth and forces them against the brick wall beside an overflowing dumpster.

His breath whooshes from his lungs. The neck he holds in restraint is the one he was dying to caress a mere minute ago. 

“Bertholdt?”

Bertholdt’s chin quivers. His mouth opens to speak but nothing comes out. 

“S-sir?” the boy asks at his side. “You know this man?”

Reiner had quickly forgotten the boy was there. Bertholdt extends the hand holding the wallet. 

“Take it,” Bertholdt says in a small voice.  

The boy hesitates, eyes darting between the two. 

“Take it and go!” Reiner snaps. “I’ll handle this.”

“Y—yes, thank you, sir.” He plucks the wallet from Bertholdt’s hand and darts off. 

Reiner feels Bertholdt’s hammering pulse in his neck. He lets him go. Suddenly horrified that he may have hurt him.

“You’re here early,” Bertholdt murmurs, rubbing his neck.

He backs up a step. “I was impatient. I wanted to see you.”

His head is bowed, arms falling limp at his side. “Reiner, I…” 

His ears ring. Emotions storming within but unable to place just what they are. Let alone what to say next. 

“Could we go back to my apartment to talk?” Bertholdt asks. 

Reiner nods, still processing the past minute. Saving a poor pickpocketing victim from Bertholdt defies reality.

Bertholdt plods home, obscuring his face from any light. Inside his apartment, the lights are off, and neither of them bother to turn them on. Reiner lingers by the door, and Bertholdt sits on the end of his bed. Hands folded on his lap and eyes cast downward. His features blanketed by shadows. 

“I was going to tell you,” Bertholdt says. 

“That’s you’re a thief?” It comes out sharper than Reiner intends. More accusatory. Bertholdt’s guilt is clear even in the dark and he can’t bear to add to it. “I mean, a…” But there’s no other word for it. Bertholdt is a thief. 

“It’s just to make ends meet sometimes. I don’t like doing it. But I’m—” he hears him gulp. “—I live alone, this place isn’t great but it isn’t awful either. I can’t afford it on a bartender’s salary.”

A knee-jerk judgment builds. 

_'There’s more ways to get money than stealing from the already needy.'_

_'You’re better than this.'_

_'How could you?'_

But they all die on his tongue. As if Reiner could judge one for committing crimes. Even ones chosen to do. Yet what sticks in his mind is the lie. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Reiner asks. “You told me about your guns.”

“Yeah, I did. It’s not that I didn’t trust you, I do. It’s that you talked so highly of Bertholdt. How kind he was, how good of a friend he was, how he hated so, so much every bad thing he had to do. And how lucky I am to not remember having to do bad things. So this? I chose to do it. Something Bertholdt would never do.” Both hands grip the edge of the bed. “You wanted Bertholdt, and I couldn’t bear to let you down.”

“You’re still Bertholdt.”

“Not in every way. I let you think I was.”

“I know you’re not exactly the same. And I don’t care. You didn’t have to lie.” He goes to sit down beside him, catching the silhouette of his long face. “You’re still him.”

His head turns. “Are you not even mad at me?”

He should be. He knows he should be. In theory he is. He's right, it’s _not_ something Bertholdt would do. At least not the one he knew. And after Reiner spilled his soul to him, he had the audacity to held back a piece of himself…

But his heart never considers logic. 

“It’s my fault you lied to me. I’m sorry I built you up so high.”

A frustrated sigh leaves him. “You should be mad. I am. And it’s not your fault I lied.” 

“I just don’t have the energy to be mad at you.”

“I’ll be mad at me enough of the both us then." He shakes his head. "You’re too forgiving, Reiner.”

“Maybe." He eyes the darkened shape of the clock on the bookshelf. "Or maybe I’m just tired.” The faint noise of people shouting and cackling in the street below fills the silence. “Well,” Reiner continues, “is there anything else? I don’t care if you’re not perfect. I just want to know you again.”

Bertholdt stays motionless a moment, then leans over and flicks on the bedside light. It’s just dim enough to not hurt Reiner’s eyes. But light enough to illuminate Bertholdt’s features and the circles that shade his undereyes. He's never noticed them before despite memorizing every dip and angle of his face.

Bertholdt curls over and reaches under the bed. He procures a half-drunk bottle of rum. It sloshes as he places it to so the side. “I stole this from the bar. When I get really lonely I’ll drink myself to sleep. Sometimes even fall asleep hunched over my toilet. It’s pathetic. I don’t know why but I just can’t relate to anyone else. I tried, I really did. But it never works. Like there’s a block. I don’t remember much about my life, but I do know I’ve been lonely for a long time.” A smile touches his lips. “Until you showed up. And suddenly got everything I’d been missing.”

Reiner’s throat stiffens. Tears threaten to spill from his ducts. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

He leans against his shoulder. “I’m sorry I left _you_ alone.” 

He threads his hands with his and kisses his head. “Let’s just both be sorry. Really, really sorry.”

“I like that,” he agrees. They bask in each other’s presence a while. Reiner listening to Bertholdt’s slow breathing as he sinks against him. Their fingers gently draw patterns over each other. 

Reiner can’t find it in him to care about ‘Maxim’s’ shortcomings. He knows Bertholdt’s soul and loves him all the same. Reiner was, and is, more of a burden than a thieving drunkard Bertholdt could ever be. And Bertholdt never dared love him any less.  

Bertholdt grabs the bottle at his side. “Don’t suppose you want to join me for a drink?”

“Sure.”

He blinks. “Oh, I was kinda kidding.”

“Too bad.” He takes the bottle and pops the cork. “I won’t let you drink yourself silly.”

He stretches his arms. “I'm actually not in the mood for that anyway.”

"Glasses or straight from the source?" 

"Glasses." Bertholdt starts to get up, but Reiner blocks him with his arm.

"Let me." Reiner fetches two cups and they sit beside each other. Bertholdt pulls his knees halfway to his chest and Reiner gives them both a shot. 

“Never thought rum would be your drink,” Reiner says as he watches Bertholdt’s lips touch the glass rim. He loves his lips.

“I’m a bad boy, remember?” Bertholdt quips. Reiner smiles and takes a sip of the first rum he’s ever had. Then a grimace wipes the smile clean from his face. “Not a fan?”

He smacks his tongue. “I’m a good boy.” Bertholdt chokes out a laugh. Reiner clears his throat. “Hey, you know I could give you help, enough money to make it without pickpocketing.”

His eyes darken. “No, no, no, I can’t ask that.” His jaw tightens. “It’d kind of make me feel like a…” 

“What, a prostitute?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs. “I thought you’d say that. But I had to offer.”

“Thank you offering.” He tosses back another drink. “But I can take care of myself.”

His face warms. “I can tell.”

The rum relaxes them both and Bertholdt shares more. Explaining a foggy memory of beginning thievery. Only knowing he had done it since he started living on his own—whenever that was. Also confessing his their run-in the tavern the second time they met was after a scuffle with a pickpocketed peasant. Guilt laces his voice as he tells of spending a wad of stolen cash on a few drinks rather than rent. 

But if nothing else, it shows Bertholdt never lost his humanity. And Reiner loves him even more for that. Despite the rough topics, Reiner feels like he’s finally home. Spending the evening chatting with Bertholdt has been a luxury he ached for. Reminiscent of training days in both Marley and Paradis and the moments stolen during to be the kids they were never allowed to be.

It’s made even better when Bertholdt moves over and again lays his head on Reiner’s shoulder. Reiner rests his chin on the top of his head.  

“You smell nice,” Bertholdt says. “I noticed earlier.”

“Had a bath. Figured you’d like it.”

“I do.” Reiner lifts his head and finds his lips. They share a tender kiss before Bertholdt pulls back. “Wait, I’m still mad at me.” 

“I’m not.”

“One of us has to be. I’d feel bad if we went there again.”

He pads his thumb over his cheek. “Alright.”

“I’d still like you to stay, if you can.”

“‘Course.”

They undress into their under clothes and Bertholdt offers Reiner a glass of baking soda and water rinse to combat the taste of booze. The routine of preparing for bed repeats itself like stepping into a shoe not worn in ages that still fits perfectly.  

Except this time Reiner can wrap his arms around Bertholdt instead of hoping for him to flop ontop of him during sleep. He holds Bertholdt against him beneath the covers, back snug against his chest. Warmth flushes through Reiner’s body from the tips of his ears to his toes. 

He chews the ulcer from before, his steady heart starting to skip. There’s no avoiding the thing he needs to say. 

“I need to tell you something,” Reiner whispers. He catches Bertholdt’s eyelashes separate in the dark. “You don’t have to say anything back, you don’t need to. I just have to say it once.” His heart flip-flops. “I lo—” he fights back a stutter. “I l—love you.” He nearly chokes on the words, but forces them out again. “I love you, Bertholdt.”

A low hum leaves Bertholdt’s throat and he squeezes Reiner’s hand before bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. Then presses his curled fingers against his forehead. 

Reiner radiates with heat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Bertholdt's perspective. I really wanted to give some insight into him in this fic. Remaining chapters will be back to Reiner. And I imagine about 2-3 chapters of this fic are remaining.

Stars cascade across the night sky. Bertholdt’s fingertips graze at its shimmer and sparkle. But only dead air greets him no matter how far he reaches. His arm folds back down and hits crumpled bed sheets. He’s just awoken. The galaxy is gone and his dingy grey ceiling looms over him instead. But he’s not alone, there’s amber eyes gazing at him like he’s seeing his own twinkle of colorful stars.

“What were you dreaming about?” Reiner rasps.

Bertholdt blinks the sleep from his eyes and rolls over. “Stars and things.”

“You ever see anything else in your dreams?”

Bertholdt reflects. Now that he thinks about it, he only sees those stars, and at times a hazy winding road. He’s not even dreamed of Reiner. His brow creases. “No. Just stars and trails.”

“Hm.” Reiner strokes his hair. Bertholdt shivers. Chilly wisps of loneliness disappear each time Reiner lays his hands on him. 

They share a kiss next and Bertholdt marvels at how much he loves Reiner. How it feels as if they share one body, as if they’ve never been apart. Warming the icy cold sliver of him that was lost and steals to survive just another day. He feels the gashes on Reiner’s heart too. They bled against his when he first crushed him in hug in that alley. He'd been frozen solid with fear wondering why he felt he knew this stranger his entire life. Bertholdt wanted to hold him forever. 

Reiner shows him, with a lingering bashful twinge of shame that twists Bertholdt’s gut, how to join their bodies physically. Bertholdt finds his way inside him. His eyes feel like they’re going to roll back in his head from how good the pressure feels. Reiner sloppily gnaws at his shoulder and his nails scrape red trails across his back. He understands the meaning of the word ecstasy when he finishes inside. 

“This is all your first time doing this,” Reiner says many foggy minutes later. “Right?”

“As far as I know.” He focuses his tipsy vision on Reiner in time to see guilt melt across his features. 

Guilt that Bertholdt has no trouble reading; Reiner thinks he’s taken advantage of him. Broken some sacred lock of purity. It’s sweet, it’s love, it’s annoying, and it’s funny all at the same time. 

“You’re not taking advantage of me or anything,” he answers the worry that hangs in the air. He snuggles closer. Reiner’s eyes ask the next question and Bertholdt answers, “Yeah, I’m sure.” He bites his lip. “I mean… does it seem like I haven’t had a good time?” 

His eyes lid, and Bertholdt knows the worry still remains behind them, but Reiner’s armor—and this ironic trait is not lost on him—of awful opinions of himself is one he can only crack but never break. 

***

Warm waves lick Bertholdt’s feet and he twiddles his toes. The sun boasts itself high and the bay air smells fresh. It’s not a perfect beach, litter smatters its sandy shores but he can’t care. He loves this place. For as far as his memory takes him, he’s come here when the foot traffic is low, and lay at the water. Deja vu drenches each trip, as it does every inch of the town he lives in. Like he’s just awoken from an epic-long dream and can remember its feeling but not its moving pictures. At least he knows now why that is. However it causes more frustration than it cures.

Bertholdt closes his eyes and lies on his back. Head meeting the squishy sand and arms sprawled out his sides. He shifts a leg and his bare body soaks up the sun’s heat. His eyes fly open and he bolts to his elbows, but he’s not naked. He lets out a sigh of relief. Uncertain if the fleeting feeling was a lost memory, or just his dozing mind recalling the recent amount of time spent unclothed with Reiner.

He does know one thing for certain by mere unpictured instinct; who Bertholdt was before. An enslaved boy with a life marred by fear. Utterly helpless to change a letter of his circumstances. There’s not much difference now, he’s not free to walk unencumbered, but he has a choice in whether to offer his power to Marley or live in secret. It feels good. It almost thrills him. He thinks the defeatist Bertholdt would be happy that Maxim has a choice for the first time in his life. Even if the end result is the same and the curse of Ymir brings him to his end. He chooses how he gets there.

A large cage is still better than a cramped one. 

Laughter vibrates through his chest and he lies back down on the pearly sand. Then curls upward and laughs himself silly. The trials of the past days make his body erupt. He feels nearby guards’ eyes on him. Probably thinking him a drunkard or mental case. Little do they know how he could level the entire area with a prick to his finger. The muscles surrounding his mouth strain and burn. The past Bertholdt must not have laughed much, at least not very hard.

_Bertholdt also never stole from his fellow oppressed Eldians._

His laughter finally wanes when he recalls what Bertholdt wouldn’t be proud of. Empty-handed Eldians driven to begging because of his selfish actions. As he lies relishing in his new choice, his throat thickens at the one that while having been innate, is still a choice. Briefly he wonders why Reiner was so dismissive. Though again Reiner is an open book to him. Bertholdt must seem like a bird caught in his hands that will flying away the moment he loosens his grip. 

Reiner should know that’s impossible. There’s nothing breaking the tether that’s there. And as the awful, flawed, selfish, hypocritical people that they both are, slaves to burdens both real and imagined, Bertholdt decides to give him something to erase the burden. If just for a moment.

***

_'Meet me at that favorite place of mine I told you about. Midnight. -M'_

The note was shoved into his frazzled and frizzy-haired co-worker’s hand. Told her to give the note to Reiner that night when he would inevitably visit. It’s not like he can call him on the phone. And with Reiner having to attend to the duties he’d been neglecting lately, Bertholdt feels lonely again. Achingly lonely.

Bertholdt now waits under the dock, towel sprawled beneath where he holds his knees. A small green bag sits at his side. The crashing waves are louder at night, and Reiner’s cautious stride barely breaks through.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Reiner settles beside him on the towel. “So this is the place,” he says of Bertholdt’s accounts of his visits here.

“This is the place.”

They speak no more. Bertholdt caresses his hand and Reiner's cold fingertips warm beneath his own. The soft sounds of the waves and the faint city life float to his ears. He’s shocked at how much he loves Reiner. Not the kind of dizzy infatuation that’s saturated by lust that fades as quickly as it comes. This is a deep rumbling heat that spreads throughout his body. That needs nothing but silence to enjoy its glow.

Bertholdt finally reaches for the bag. “I have a surprise for you.”

His thin brow quirks. “Oh?”

He’s near giddy with anticipation. Having imagined Reiner’s face upon receiving the surprise. How gorgeous he’ll look when accepting it. But a spark of fear strikes, and his hand freezes. What if Reiner _doesn’t_ like it? Thinks it’s too much or that he doesn’t deserve such a gift? But Bertholdt gulps down his hesitation and fishes out a tiny purple cloth bag. “This isn’t expensive, and I don’t worry, I spent my own money on it.” He pulls its drawstring and shakes free onto his palm two golden rings. Reiner’s breath quakes. “I know we can’t do it for real, but…” He pinches the ring and holds it out to him. “Will you marry me?”

Reiner hides his eyes. One of the reactions Bertholdt imagined. So he takes Reiner’s hand and lays the ring inside, then curls his pal around it. “Reiner.”

Reiner nods through his hand. “Yes.” Then uncovers his eyes, a faint smile peeking through. “Yes. I will.”

“Then may I?”  

He opens his palm turns his hand over. Bertholdt slides the band onto Reiner’s ring finger. Bertholdt holds out his own left hand, Reiner quivers as he slides it onto Bertholdt’s finger. His shoulders shake then he collapses into his arms. Bertholdt holds and nuzzles him. 

“Bertholdt,” Reiner begins, muffled against his shoulder, “I still have trouble believing this is all real.”

“Me too,” he whispers. Waking up from what feels like an ancient slumber to a stranger who loves him unconditionally still feels like fiction. But Bertholdt is not finished with his sweet offerings to Reiner this evening. He slowly trickles back from his embrace and murmurs, “I have something else unbelievable too.”

His squared and tired eyes gleam. “Yeah?”

He holds his clammy hands, the cool twinge of the ring meeting his flesh, and pulls him up. He leads him to the worn wood of the underside of the dock and the slopes of sand bearing busy footprints. In the moonlight, carvings scatter the wood. Much is random graffiti, but there’s also a section of hearts with initials inside. The etchings of delirious teenagers in love. 

Bertholdt grows flushed again, the cheesiness of it all overwhelms him, and he rubs the back of his neck. He’s twenty years-old, even if he barely remembers any of his life. Meaning this is beyond his and Reiner’s time, but there’s an urge inside for stupid things. Stupid youth having secret trysts and promising marriage too young and carving their names into wood certain their love will last forever when they know it’s only fleeting. 

They’re not those teenagers, but they can steal a bit of their sentiment to wash away the brutal truth of their lives.

“You still have that pocket knife?” Bertholdt asks of the knife he recalls Reiner gave him to prove his titan form.

Reiner digs it out of his coat pocket and runs his worn thumb across the handle. “You’re a romantic, huh?”

“You kinda make me feel that way.” A blush finds his cheeks, and Reiner hands him the knife. “Oh, I thought you might want to do it… unless it makes you feel silly.”

He smiles. “It does,” he says, sniffling away previous tears, and searches for a clear space. “But it’s a good kinda silly.” He locates a patch between three other hearts and letters and begins one of his own. _‘B+R’_ sits etched snugly in the middle. Bertholdt is impressed with the finesse of his lines. Many of the others are uneven and ineligible. Reiner’s a whirlwind inside, but his commitment to loving him is as calm and straightforward as the lines and curves he draws. 

Reiner lets out a shuddering breath and lets the knife fall to the sand. His hand cover his eyes once more and he’s crying. Bertholdt wraps a loving arm around his shoulders.

Reiner groans against him. Chest heaving as if trying to restrain a beast. “I’m sorry I’m such a… such a fucking mess all the time.”

“I don’t mind.”

Bertholdt clutches Reiner in his arms. Imagining instead of holding a flight-eager bird, he’s holding a broken vase that will crumble the second he releases any pressure. Reiner is broken in a way that even Bertholdt’s soothing touches can’t fix. Though there’s cracks within his own walls as well, even if he can’t remember the force that put them there. But their pieces fit together perfectly. 

Reiner balls his fist against Bertholdt’s chest and he can hear the grind of his teeth. His own gentle fingers cup his fist, the skin stretched thin over the bone. A tender caress makes them loosen and eventually fold into his own fingers.

“You’re still too easy on me,” Reiner’s low voice comes. “That about you hasn’t changed.”

Reiner’s hypocrisy is obvious. Bertholdt himself steals from the unfortunate and Reiner merely frowned. In what world does it do any good to judge each other though?  Bertholdt judges himself, and Reiner likewise, but to do so to one another seems pointless. The outsider would say they should, but their time together is for no one but themselves. 

“I’m not going to judge you,” Bertholdt says. “I never can.”

“You should.” He goes limp in his arms. “Bertholdt, I… these past years, I… just tried to forget you.” His voice creaks like a wooden door. Dead. Broken. “I never talked about you. I never told Pieck, or Galliard, or Gabi, or my mother, or anyone about our time as friends. When I tried to teach Gabi your shooting tricks—which I failed until you showed her yourself—I told her I learned it from ‘a comrade.’  When someone dies you’re supposed to do everything to keep them alive through memories and I never did because it was too painful for _me._ I should have been pleading and begging to go back to that island to find out what happened to you. But I’d hoped to die never knowing.”

An unseasonably cold gush of wind whips around and slices right between them. Bertholdt understands Reiner entirely, but can’t bury the cutting feeling that every trace of his life and personality had neared being extinguished by a cold wind. But he’s frustrated with Reiner. And it’s a feeling he can tell he’s felt before. Reiner tries to both desperately cling to him for dear life while also pushing him seas away.  

“There’s nothing you can do about that now,” Bertholdt says. “Let’s just focus on getting married now.” 

The past is a tornado of regrets that never stop storming.

“Spring wedding? Summer?” Bertholdt pushes. Intent on pulling the darkness of the past into the light of the future—no matter how make-believe it may be. “What _is_ your favorite season?” 

Reiner’s eyes are darkened in a convenient shadow. His lips part just enough to reply, “Summer.”

“On the beach then maybe?”

“Under a gazebo,” he offers, then shifts his jaw. “Serving sheet cake and punch. The color green everywhere. And you get all blushy when you have to kiss me in front of everyone.” 

Bertholdt's mind forms the dreamy image, and he hums. “Thought about this before, huh?”

“It’s what kept you alive inside me all this time.”


End file.
